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Class __'?lV73^ 
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Copyright N°. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 



Easter-Song 



EasverSokg 

Lyrics and ^allads of 
^he Joy of Spring -time 

Cli^to^ Scollaw 




Clinton, New York : 

George William Browning 



Copyrighted iqo6 by Clinton Scollard 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

APR 4 1906 

Copyright Entry 
CLASS A XXc. No. 

/VIS 

COPY 



1.9 






CONTENTS 




A Madrigal 


7 


The Barren Easter 


8 


In a Winter Wood 


11 


The Minstrels 


12 


Dew- Flowers 


14 


Children of the Morn 


15 


A Song 


16 


The Tourney 


17 


Flower and Soul 


18 


The Outland Lure 


19 


The Preceptor 


20 


The Stream 


21 


The Leaf 


22 


The Olden Way 


23 


Saint Rosaline 


25 


April Promise 


27 


I Lean Sunward 


29 


The Pillow 


30 


Horizons 


32 


The Spirit 


33 


The Rocks of Chance 


34 


The Praise-Fire 


35 


Heart o' Mine 


36 


The Pine 


37 


A Canticle 


38 


Now That the Birds Come Back 


39 


The Vale 


41 


Song for Easter Mornmg 


42 


The Garth 


43 


The Easter Walk 


44 


The Path 


45 


The Search 


46 



CONTENTS 




CONTINUED 




Among the Hills 


47 


The Healing of the Wood 


48 


The Quest 


49 


The Green o' the Year 


50 


Patchwork 


51 


The Weavers 


52 


A Legend of Normandy 


53 


Life 


59 


Sorcery 


60 


Granther Time 


61 


The Thrall 


62 


In Sanctuary 


64 



Let us take leave of haste awhile, 

And loiter well content 
With little pleasure to beguile. 

And small habiliment ; — 

Just a wide sweep of rain-washed sky, 
A flower, a bird-note sweet ; 

Some easy trappings worn awry ; 
Loose latchets for our feet ; 

A wheaten loaf within our scrip ; 

For drink the hillside spring. 
And for true heart-companionship 

The love of loitering. 

We want so much, and yet we need 

So very slight a store. 
But in the age's grip of greed 

We hurry more and more. 

The woodland weaves its gold-green net ; 

The warm wind laT^es by ; 
Can we forego ? can we forget ? 

Come, comrade, let us try ! 



A Madrigal 

Easter-glow and Easter-gleam ! 

Lyric laughter from the stream 

That between its banks so long 

Murmured such a cheerless song; 

Stirrings faint and fine and thin 

Every woodsy place within; 

Root and tendril, bough and bole, 

Rousing with a throb of soul ; 

The old ecstasy awake 

In the briar and in the brake ; 

Blue-bird raptures — dip and run — 

And the robin-antiphon ; 

Tingling air and trembling earth. 

And the crystal cup of mirth 

Brimmed and lifted to the lip 

For each one of us to sip. 

Dream ! — 'tis something more than dream, 

Easter-glow and Easter-gleam ! 

Prescience 'tis, and prophecy 

Of the wonder that shall be 

When the spirit leaps to light 

After death's hiemal night ! 



The Barren Easter 

It was the barren Easter, 

And o'er Pamello plain, 
Where'er the sweeping eye might rove. 
From beechen grove to beechen grove, 

Greened neither grass nor grain. 

It was the barren Easter; 

By vale and windy hill. 
Where blossoms tossed on yester year. 
Now bourgeoned no narcissus spear, 

And glowed no daffodil. 

It was the barren Easter, 

And toward the grind ing-floor, 
A store of wheat within his pack, 
Along the dreary meadow-track 
Went good Saint Isadore. 

It was the barren Easter, 

And when the sweet saint came 
To where a mighty live-oak spread, 
A host of wrens and starlings red 

Seemed crying out his name. 



It was the barren Easter, 

And to his ears their cry 
Rang plaintively, " O Isadore, 
Grant us thy pity, we implore ! 

Give succor, or we die ! " 

It was the barren Easter 

When wide he flung his store, 
And all the feathered folk of air 
Sped whirring downward for their share 
From kind Saint Isadore. 

It was the barren Easter, 

And onward to the mill 
Along the dreary meadow-track, 
The empty bags within his pack, 

The good saint plodded still. 

It was the barren Easter; 

He scarce knew why he went, 
Save that he did not dare return 
To face his master, grim and stern, 

Now all the grain was spent. 



It was the barren Easter; 

When at the miller's feet 
He cast the sacks in dull despair, 
Behold, he saw them open there 

Abrim with golden wheat ! 

It was the barren Easter; 

Oh, meager are men's words 
To tell how He who rose that day, 
And drove the wraith of Death away, 

Helped him who fed the birds ! 



10 



In a Winter Wood 

Into a winter wood 

At the crest of the morn I went ; 

The pine-tree stood like a tent 

Of ermine, feathery soft ; 

The hemlock wore a hood ; 

And many another bole, 

Towering far aloft, 

Was wrapt in a samite stole. 

A gentle whispering 
Seemed wafted from tree to tree, 
Like a broken melody 
Chorded tender and low ; 
We are gossiping of Spring," 
Said a birch, with a friendly nod, 
' Of how we will joy when the snow 
Will let us look on the sod ! " 

Then came a truant crow 
With a lusty, rusty note. 
And a squirrel, sleek of coat, 
With his chirrup ever glad ; 
So we all chimed in, and oh. 
What a cheery, chattering. 
Frolicsome time we had 
Just gossiping of Spring ! 



11 



The Minstrels 

All through the spring-time day, 

Till the purple even-fall, 
Rang from the willow spray 

The blackbird's clamorous call ; 
But the mist has mounted high 

Over the western steep. 
And we list to another cry 

With its "peep ! peep ! peep ! " 

Thus saith the wistful song 

Of the tuneful minstrel band, — 
" We have lain in exile long 

In a white and lonely land ; 
We have lain us languishing 

In a dreary, death-like sleep, 
But now through the gates of Spring 

Do we 'peep ! peep ! peep ! ' " 

" What therein do we see ? 

Life at its vernal flood, — 
The tremors of the tree 

As it bursts the sheath of the bud ; 
The flight of the meadow-lark 

Where the pasture paths are deep ; 
This, and more, do we mark 

As we ' peep ! peep ! peep ! ' " 



12 



' All beauty we descry 

In the lowly heart of things ; 
The moth and the butterfly 

With the pollen on their wings ; 
The grain by the river shore 

That soon will be ripe to reap ; 
This do we see, and more, 

As we 'peep ! peep ! peep ! ' " 

' And man who walketh the earth. 

Lusty, or faint of breath ; 
Lads who are loud in mirth. 

The old who are sad at death ; 
Man, the bond or the free, 

Who to the grave doth creep, 
Him do we ever see 

As we 'peep ! peep ! peep ! ' " 

Such is the minstrels' song, 

Such is the minstrels' cry. 
From the bough-tops where they throng 

As the south-wind whispers by. 
The clock-tower's silvery strain 

Telleth the night grows deep, 
But still that clear refrain 

With its " peep ! peep ! peep ! " 



13 



Dew-Flowers 

There's a waste of sand unpathed and arid 
In the land beside the sunset sea, 

Where no foot of man has ever tarried 
Save to rest for all eternity. 

Over it the skies show rainless reaches ; 

Blown about, it lies, by scorching breath ; 
Barren is it as the ocean's beaches, 

And they call the place "the Vale of Death. 

Yet, so strange is nature's chrismal order, 
Ere the range of peaks that round it tower 

Flash the dawn across its dismal border, 
Lo, it flushes into tender flower ! 

For the dews adown the night-winds drifted 
Mingle with the brown and sterile earth. 

And, by some miraculous urgance gifted, 
Bring this marvelment of bloom to birth. 

Briefly lift these flowers their fragile faces, 
' For when dowers the vale the blaze of day, 
As ephemeral as frost's filmy laces, 
Into nothingness they fade away. 

Spreads afar once more the desert glooming, 
Like a shore with desolation rife ; — 

Aye, and who has not beheld them blooming, - 

These dew-flowers upon the wastes of life ! 

14 



Children of the Morn 

We are the children of the morn, 
Bred of its dewy loam and wind ; 

Yet as we journey, gay or lorn, 
We leave the morning far behind. 

Before we ken our grievous loss, 
Behold the noon is zenith high ! 

And each one, with his care for cross. 
Toils on beneath the flaming sky. 

Fleetly the golden hours decline 

With swift, sure lapsing of the light ; 

Along the west a crimson line. 

The quiet eve, and then the night ! — 

The night, and sleep, — the long, long sleep,- 
Untroubled by a dream of pain ! 

O far beyond the darkness deep 
Shall we not find the morn again ? 



15 



A Song 

O'er the hill the plangent west-wind dirges ; 

Deeply shrouded is each meadow-way ; 
Night in day, and day in night-time merges 

In monotony of white and gray ; 

Rainbow-gold of promise, — not a ray ! 
Desolation rules with icy sway ! 

Swing, O planets, on your shining courses ! 
Bear us past the wintry woe and pain ! 

Work your wonder, O ye vernal forces. 
Let us hear it throbbing through the rain,- 
The old tender and ecstatic strain ! 
April and the blue-bird back again ! 



16 



The Tourney 

What time the falchion of the sun 
Clove through the morning mists, 

The trumpets blared right merrily, 

And two gay knights armed cap-a-pie. 

The very flower of chivalry, 
Rode out into the lists. 

And one was all bedight in white 

From gleaming helm to greaves. 
The other's shield showed golden sheen, 
With bars of emerald shot between. 
The while his armor glistered green 
As the unfolding leaves. 

They splintered lance on couched lance 

Amid applausive cries. 
They battled without jeer or mock ; 
Both seemed as firm as is the rock ; 
And echoes of their conflict-shock 

Went reeling up the skies. 

Then suddenly the snowy plume 
Slipped crashing down amain ; 

The victor heard the plaudits ring; 

We saw him back his vizor fling, — 

And lo, the triumph smile of Spring 
Above the Winter slain ! 



17 



Flower and Soul 

Thus saith the flower; — 
" I wait the perfect hour, 
Then will I wake, 
And into blossom break, 
Bright-wooed and won 
By my lord-lover. Sun ! " 

My soul saith ; — " Like the flower, 

I wait the perfect hour; 

Then out of gloom 

Into ecstatic bloom 

1 will be straightway won 

By Faith's bright sun ! " 



18 



The Outland Lure 

Who bides beneath a roof to-day, 
If he may set his foot abroad 

Along the woodsy outland way, 
Is little better than a clod ! 

There is no thing in all the land 
That does not seem articulate ; 

The grasses smile, and understand 
The vireo calling to his mate. 

Tall pine-tops unto pine-tops breathe 
In sighings murmurous as the sea ; 

And through the birchen copse beneath 
There runs a fluting harmony. 

In the half-dusks of tangled green 
The pale wild-rose's censer burns, 

And in each hollow may be seen 
The fragile laceries of ferns. 

While over all, for all to share, 

Placid and pure and wide and high, 

Mist-winnowed by the searching air. 
Broods motherly God's open sky. 

Then grip the oak-staff, ye who may. 
And set the pilgrim foot abroad ! 

Who, willing, bides within to-day 
Is little better than a clod ! 
19 



The Preceptor 

I set my eyes on the face of Duty ; 

" Master," I said, "let be ! let be ! 
Life will lose all its golden beauty 
If I must follow thee ! " 

Ah, but the ways that we trod were weary ! 

Ah, but the paths that we followed long ! 
Dreary the span of the sky, and eerie 

The sound of every song. 

And yet, as though through some chrismic wonder, 

After the lapsing of sunless days, 
The grirn gray veil seemed to melt and sunder 

Like the rifted morning haze. 

Then I set my eyes on the face of Duty ; 

" Master," I said, "at last I see 
That life has gained a more hallowed beauty 
Since I have followed thee ! " 



20 



The Stream 

Far in a forest's ferny fastnesses 

It bursts from under-earth, brims a dim pool, 
Leaps down a ledge, then, glinting clear and cool, 

Darts from the shrouding shadows of the trees. 

It cleaves both marsh and mead, by slow degrees 
Widening and deepening ; owns the sway and rule 
Of curbing circumstance, though not its tool, 

Joining the calm of the unplumbed seas. 

Thus with the current of our lives, so small 
In its unknown beginnings, waxing great 

As it goes winding through the stress of years. 
Guided by some divine, o'er-brooding Fate, 
Until it joins the ocean that we call 

Eternity, beyond God's swinging spheres. 



21 



The Leaf 

Know you of aught more lovely than the leaf 
When it escapes the bud, — ■ the virginal green 
Catching the sunlight, taking to itself 
A delicate shimmer from the sun's warm gold ? 
Its softest touch reserves for it the wind ; 
Its warmest raindrop sends the kindly cloud ; 
Thus is it gently nurtured by the Spring. 
Years come and go, and still the mothering 
As on the first exultant bourgeoning-tide, 
Mysterious, full of sweetnesses, and all 
The old earth's elemental loveliness. 

As beauteously let thou some leaf have birth 
Within the soul, — some vernal shoot of love, 
Of faith, of pity, or fair charity ! 



22 



The Olden Way 

When by the ingle-side I sit, — 
However it may be by day, — 

And shades are drawn, and lights are lit, 
My heart goes back the olden way ; 

Goes back along the paths I trod 
In that far, fair, unfettered time 

When my young feet were ardor-shod. 
And the sun rose and set to rhyme. 

The hill-crests call to me; I mount 
Through open beech and maple aisles, 

Where a pellucid forest fount 

Slips dimpling down with lyric smiles. 

A pasture reach where mandrake-moons 
Are half leaf-hid I cross, and there 

I chase the tiny seed-balloons 
The dandelions toss in air. 

Then I plunge thicket-ward, and win 
Through many a briary dip and turn, 

Drinking the hale aromas in 

From bruised bark and trampled fern. 



23 



On and yet on with vernal thews 
I swing, nor do I pause, forsooth ! 

Why should I, when I have to use 

The brimmed, immortal cruse of Youth ! 

And not until I cap the height, 
With my hewn staff of hickory. 

Do I drain all the deep delight 

The sweet Earth-Mother willed to me. 

The height ! — Ah, immemorial hills. 
Fresh with the dawn-wind and the dew, 

My heart, when day's loud turmoil stills, 
Yearns ever, ever back to you ! 

Spire after golden sunset spire 

Crumbles, or fades to somber gray ; — 
O hills, from out the ingle-fire 

Beckon me still the olden way ! 



24 



Saint Rosaline 

'Twas Rosaline, the austere Prince's daughter, 
The fairest of the land's fair maiden flowers, 

In that old town beside the Neckar water 

Whose walls are tiaraed with a score of towers. 

Beloved she was throughout the great grim castle 
Wherein her smile was like a golden ray ; 

Worshiped she was by varlet and by vassal, 

When through the narrow streets she took her way. 

It chanced that famine sore had gripped the people. 
And though bright vernal light touched heights and 
dells, 

The chimes that rang reverberant from each steeple 
Seemed like the mockery of Easter bells. 

For scarce a crust had many for the morrow, 
And to make still more piteous their pain. 

The Prince decreed no needy hand should borrow 
From the state granaries the accustomed grain. 

Yet did the daughter of this heartless master 

Creep in where bins gleamed amber to the view, 

At soul determined to avert disaster 

If it be but from the most wretched few. 



25 



As forth she stole, and sought a shadowed byway. 
Bearing her basket with its covered grain, 

Back from his worship up the crowded highway 
The Prince came winding with his Easter train. 

Ere she could speed his searching gaze had caught her, 
Suspicion kindling as she turned to flee; 

Although 'twas clear the damsel was his daughter, 
Should he evade his duty? Nay, not he ! 

With all the majesty that rank imposes, 
He bade her bare her burden to the view ; 

The basket lid she lifted, and lo, — roses! 
Roses irradiant, fresh as dawn with dew ! 

Shamed by the wondrous sign, the Prince besought her 
To say that none henceforth through want should 
pine ; 

And to this day the rigorous ruler's daughter 
In praise and prayer is called — Saint Rosaline. 



26 



April Promise 

March is no more ! 

Her blasts so chill and frore 

Around far norland capes and headlands roar. 

The skies we now behold 

Are tempered by the sun's effulgent gold ; 

And faint, fine sounds disclose 

That, in the sod and mould. 

The spirit of the spring-time stirs and glows. 

'Tis April, and the willow leans to look 

And see within the brook 

Its fair, new garniture of palest green ; 

'Tis April, and the maple-buds are red, 

While in the elms o'erhead 

The leaf-elves have begun to weave a screen 

That will in June-time throw 

A wavering shadow on the lawn below ; 

'Tis April, and a thousand ice-freed rills 

Furrow a thousand hills ; 

The wheat has pierced the loam. 

And where the orchards soon the pinky foam 

Of blossom-seas will toss, 

The spiders fling their filmy webs across. 



27 



There is a throb in every river reed ; 

A subtile essence in each wayside weed 

Quickens its dormant root, 

And bids it upward toward the sunlight shoot ; 

The trillium knows 

That southern slopes no longer harbor snows ; 

The armored snail 

On dry, dead grasses leaves a shining trail ; 

The robber rooks out-caw their mawkish strains 

Above corn-planted plains ; 

The winds are winds of promise, on whose wings 

Come countless breathings, endless whisperings 

Of bursting beauty in all germinant things. 

What joy is here, 

In the foreknowledge that the youthful year 

Through spires of constant change the bud will bring 

To full fruition and fair perfecting ! 

Who wills, may con a higher prophecy 

Of harvests yet to be ; — 

What the October of our lives will yield 

If seeds be sown in April's fertile field. 



28 



I Lean Sunward 

I lean sunward all the year, — 
Copses green or copses sere, 
Time of rose or time of rime, 
Tree-toad chirp or cricket chime ! 

I lean sunward ; in my veins 
Ichor runs and ardor reigns, 
Lifting me, upon my course. 
Toward light's elemental source. 

I lean sunward ; may there be 
Something that shall buoyance me, 
When life's varied race be run. 
To the Light behind the sun ! 



29 



The Pillow 

Out of the earth have I made me a pillow, 

Smoothed it and mossed it and grassed it well over ; 
Under the tremulous leaves of the willow, 
Lo, it is there I have made me a pillow, 
Down where the rillet runs by like a rover. 
And the bees quaff deep from the sweet white clover ! 

Sooth, there is much both to lean and to listen to, — 
Twitter of wrens and the warble of thrushes ; 

Bosom and throat how they quiver and glisten, too ! 

Mellower music nowhere will you listen to ; 
Trills that are golden and silvery gushes, 
And the brook meanwhile making love to the rushes. 

Day-time or night-time, noon-time or moon-time, 
Ever there's something to lure me and hold me ; 

You know the charm that there is in the June-time ! 

( Day-time or night-time, noon-time or moon-time ; ) 
Such is the magic that seems to enfold me, 
Play on my spirit, re-fashion, re-mould me. 



30 



Bough-sway above me, and reed-sway below me, 
And gentle leaf-laughter around and about me ; 

Crickets, cicadas, and katydids know me ; 

Tinkles and trebles above and below me ; 

Just the old earth-joy the clear voices shout me ; 
If there is happier haven I doubt me ! 

Yea, on the breast of the loving all-mother, 
Lo, it is there 1 a pillow have made me ; 

Soothe can she, lull can she, more than another, — 

She the all-bountiful, beautiful mother ; 

O that her peace, with its healing, may aid me. 
When, at the last, on her breast they have laid me ! 



31 



Horizons 

Who harbors Hatred, sees a small 
And closing cincture hold him thrall. 

Who glooming Envy entertains, 
Has narrowing sky-lines for his pains. 

Who makes perpetual friend of Doubt, 
Marks dwarfing vistas round about. 

But he whose bosom Love hath found, 
Is by no cramped horizons bound. 



32 



The Spirit 

I am the spirit that broods 

In the hush of the winter woods ; 

Not of cold but of fire 

Is the pulse of my desire ; 

You would not dream me kin 

To April's lyric thrall, 
And yet my passionate voice is twin 

To the blue-bird's luring call. 

I am the fervor fine 

That thrills the vein of the vine ; 

And one day it will be I, 

My quickening potency, 

That shall kindle a golden glow 

In the snow of the lily's core. 
And set the lip of the rose a-blow 

Where the garden slopes to the shore. 

I slumber but to wake. 

And I brood but to swell and break ; 

In my silence there lies 

The shaping of destinies. 

A whisper breathes, and hark ! — 

Mystery, melody, mirth ! 
Out of the depths of the dearth and dark 

A glory over the earth ! 



33 



The Rocks of Chance 

O ye who drive upon the rocks of Chance, 
Or drift upon the shoals of Circumstance, 
Or fail to reach the port of high emprise 
Through, on Life's seas, some patient sacrifice, 
Who, following Duty's beacon o'er the main, 
Love's golden galleon mark another gain. 
Take heart ! None knows how fair the meed may be 
In God's green islands of Eternity ! 



34 



The Praise - Fire 

In the wild Saxon woodland ways of old, 
On Easter eve did they upheap a pyre, 
And, at the stroke of midnight, touch with fire 

The gathered fagots, till on high uprolled 

The mighty flame-tongues, lighting wood and wold . 
Then rose strong voices in a prayerful choir 
Chanting His praises, and their deep desire 

To be as lambs within His sheltered fold. 

In fancy, down the avenues of years, 

As down the darkling Saxon forest aisles. 
The firelight flashes and the song beguiles ; 
And lo, the flame that falls upon the eyes, 
The while Hope's paean thrills our eager ears. 

Is Faith's bright torch that lights the centuries ! 



35 



Heart o' Mine 

All along the valleys, through the beechen alleys 
Little silvery sallies set the blood athrill ; 

Now bleak days are over, we may play the rover, 
Heart o' mine, heart o' mine, footing where we will ! 

Marry, there's no curing for the old alluring 

Gypsy-thrall that masters us when the thrushes trill ! 

We must out at bloom of day, wandering till gloom 
of day, 
Heart o' mine, heart o' mine, straying where we will ! 

Care, — 'tis fled afar from us, distant as a star from us ; 

We've a bliss to bar from us everything of ill ; 
Dreams come true at last to us, woe and winter past 
to us. 

Heart o' mine, heart o' mine, faring where we will ! 



36 



The Pine 

Yon pine that pinnacles the height, 

And meets the tempest's stress and sting, 

Stands, in the vast white reach of light, 
As green as in the flush of Spring. 

Thus would I have my heart abide 
Through age's wintry tyranny. 

Proof against turn of time and tide, 
Forever vernal like the tree. 



37 



A Canticle 

Once more is the woodland ringing 

With buoyant mirth ; 
Once more are the green shoots springing 

From under-earth ; 
Out of the gates of glooming, — 

The depths of dole, — 
Like a bud unto its blooming, 

Rise thou, my soul ! 

Once more there are lyrics lifted 

From all the rills; 
Once more there is warm light sifted 

On God's fair hills. 
Out of the slough of sadness, 

Again made whole. 
Into the glow of gladness 

Rise thou, my soul ! 

Once more the exultant spirit 

Through nature runs ; 
Once more from heaven to hear it 

Lean stars and suns. 
Freed from thy wintry prison, 

Seek thou the goal 
Of Christ, the re-arisen. 

My soul, my soul ! 



38 



Now That the Birds Come Back 

Now that the birds come back, 

How thrills the rejuvenant heart to be alive ! 
Bluebird and black, 

And many a fair, full-throated feathered fellow 
In sober brown or in sun-borrowed yellow. 

In every close they thrive, — 
Orchard or garden, or in bosky deeps. 
Or by the rill's marge where the willow weeps. 

Behold old Sorrow gone ! 

Now with each soft rose-flowering of the dawn 

Joy lyrics with the robin and the wren ; 

We have won once again 

Some of the sweet enchantment that they knew. 

Who quaffed from wells Arcadian long ago, 
And let the days slip by 
With the recurrence of no mournful sigh, 

Dreaming that all their dreams were coming true 
Because, forsooth, they heard, 

Now loud, now low. 
The pleading, passionate iterance of a bird, — 

The soul of song in rapturous overflow. 



39 



Have Melody and her young sister, Mirth, 

Upon this trammeled earth 

A fairer union than is compassed there 

In yon blue vernal air, 

Where one small winged atom soaring sings ? 

Ah, there are other things 

That stir the sense 

With radiant recompense 

For all the ills we mortals undergo ! — 

The kindling morning-glow. 
The sight of eve's first star. 

The glamourie 

Of moonlight on the still breast of the sea. 
The perfume of the tender flowers that are 
So compact of all gracious loveliness, — 
Yea, these may bless, 
But not as that pure voice out-caroling 
The symphony of Spring ! 

Blue breast and white breast, red and tawny crest, 

Lo, how they thrive, 
Weaving the upright and the hanging nest ! 
Of joy and song who hearkens has no lack. 

Ah, how the heart doth thrill to be alive, 
Now that the birds come back ! 



40 



The Vale 

There is a vale where-down 

All of mankind must tread ; 
The king who wears a crown, 
The low, unlaurelled head ; 
And for a guide 
Stalks Pain, the hollow-eyed. 

But if there be to light 

That amaranthine slope, 
Piercing the void of night. 
The stars of Faith and Hope, 
The dark, the deep. 
Will be to us as sleep. 



41 



Song for Easter Morning 

Along the wakening valleys, 
Where the feet of Winter trod, 

The Spirit of Spring-time rallies 
The children of the sod ; 

On the slopes that were brown and barren, 

As at touch of the rod of Aaron, 
The wind-flowers sway and nod. 

A waft of the breath of Beauty 
Is blown o'er the waiting earth ; 

And the austere face of Duty 
Is touched with a tender mirth ; 

While the numbing coil of Trouble 

Is burst like a tenuous bubble 
At thought of the vernal birth. 

Aye, back from the pallid portal >> 

The stone of Death is rolled, 
And Hope, on its wings immortal, 

Mounts up in the morning's gold ; 
And life seems trustful and truthful, 
And the soul is yearning and youthful, 

And naught in the world is old ! 



42 



The Garth 

O husbandman, thou well shouldst tend 
That fair and fertile garth, thy soul ; 

Take gardener Virtue for thy friend, 
Lest thou shouldst come to dole ! 

Thou canst not be too keen of sight 
To mark no tares spring up therein ; 

For wary as a thief by night 
Is the dark sower. Sin ! 



43 



The Easter Walk 

At middle morn, on Easter day, 
I took the western hillside way 
Above the woodland, soon to be 
Bannered with vernal pageantry. 
A little wind from out the south 
Breathed lyrics from its wooing mouth. 
And somewhere Maestro Robin gave 
A sharp crescendo to his stave. 

From slope to distant greening slope 
The air was permeate with hope ; 
A tiny rillet's sole employ 
Was just to clearly chorus ''joy! " 
And as I thought, " Will there be mine 
Of Spring's rebirth some crowning sign?' 
Lo, in the moss before me set 
A tender firstling violet ! 

Blue as the bluest sky, this flower 

Made glad my heart that morning hour. 

It gave unto my breast to keep 

More than did all the earth's vast sweep ; 

So pure it was, so without flaw, 

I touched its petals as in awe, 

And there I seemed to read the whole 

Of the renascence of the soul. 



44 



The Path 

There is a path that I would lead you by, 
If you will trust yourself to me for guide; 
A path that bends along the woodland side 

Beyond the churchyard, where the dreamers lie 

Dreaming their last long dream. A quiet sky 
Leans over it, and grain-fields poppy-pied 
Stretch billowy to eastward, amber-wide. 

From where the forest brethren sway and sigh. 

Below the wood a stile stands ; then a brook 
Tosses its unsoiled silver down in glee ; 

Next is a thymy slope which we must breast, 
Climbing the gradual pathway to its crest ; 
And now that we have won the summit, look ! — 
Mysterious as our human life — the sea! 



45 



The Search 

Upon my heart these April days 
The longing keen takes hold 

To seek, afar from trodden ways, 
The morn's new-mmted gold. 

I grasp my palmer's hazel staff. 
And blithely hie me where 

The ariel blue-bird's lyric laugh 
Goes rippling down the air. 

I find within the sky no flaw, 
And all the earth to me 

Is tuned to one ecstatic law, — 
The law of harmony. 

And rising from the dewy land 
Before my questing eyes 

A little flower, divinely planned. 
In virgin beauty lies ; — 

Plucking this boon of earth and air 
In hand and heart I hold 

My own inalienable share 
Of morn's new-minted gold. 



46 



Among the Hills 

I have hied me once again 
Far above the roofs of men, 
Far above the surf of strife 
Beating on the reefs of life. 

Only nature's solemn psalm 
Pulses through these vasts of calm ; 
Only nature's epic mood 
Permeates this solitude. 

On these soaring heights withdrawn, 
I am one with dusk and dawn ; 
One with all the winds that are ; 
One with sun and moon and star. 

How remote all substance seems 
In this company of dreams ! 
Ah, to dwell with visions still 
On this heaven-lifting hill ! 



47 



The Healing of the Wood 

To heal mine aching moods, 
Give me God's virgin woods, 
His cloistral solitudes. 
Where none intrudes ! 

A dim sequestered place, 
With leaves that link and lace, 
Where peace and primal grace 
Meet face to face. 

There would I gain heart's-ease 
From the sweet calm of trees, 
And the low melodies 
Of birds and bees. 

There would the balm distill 
A soothing for all ill ; 
With cheerfulness the rill 
My heart would fill. 

I would go softly thence 
With a far kindlier sense; 
With more benevolence. 
And less pretence." 

Fairer the sky would ope; 
Less would 1, faltering, grope; 
But tread life's onward slope 
With surer hope ! 



48 



The Quest 

O it's, up with you, my comrade ! — 

Friend of the truant will ! 
You with your flute, and I with my lute. 

We will foot it over the hill ! 

We will fare for a tryst with morning, — 

She of the golden wing; 
And will learn from her store of luring lore 

The canticles of Spring ! — 

The wind's call from the pine-top, 
The bird's from the under bough ; 

The tinkle of shower, and the sigh of flower, 
And the rillet's silvery vow. 

We will shape them, we will suit them, 
We will blend them all, and then 

Back we will bear an Orphean air 
To the wondering ears of men. 



49 



The Green o' the Year 

O the green o' the year, the green o' the year, 
When the blossom bursts on the jonquil-spear, 
And the wild-phlox lifts the blue of its eye 
Up to the blue of the brooding sky ; 
When every wafture of morning brings 
A sense of the fragrant heart of things ! 
O the world is sweet and life is dear 
In this, the green o' the year! 

O the green o' the year, the green o' the year, 
When the lyric of earth is the song we hear, 
When rapture breathes from the lowliest weed, 
And the creed of joy is the common creed ; 
When nature thrills to the soul of the sod 
With the kindling touch of the smile of God ! 
O the world is sweet and life is dear 
In this, the green o' the year ! 



50 



Patchwork 

Some rainbow shreds of Hope and Joy ; 
Faith's golden stripes without alloy; 
Scraps of Ambition bright to see ; 
A few white threads of Charity ; 
Much of the purple cloth of Pain; 
Love's fabric, like a golden vein 
Between the strands of Hate and Strife;- 
Such is the patchwork we call Life. 



51 



The Weavers 

They sit, each one at her loom, 
With grave and averted face ; 

Never through glow or gloom 
One of them quits her place. 

Ceaseless whirr of the wheel ! 

Endless shift of the thread ! 
Ever, for woe or weal. 

The same monotonous tread. 

Tears and smiles and sighs, 
Fears that gather and ebb, 

Hopes, in their rainbow guise, — 
These are part of the web. 

The noble aim and the base, 
Love, with its morning glow. 

Hatred and dark disgrace, — 
Into the strands they go ! 

Never their toil abates, 
Albeit no sound one hears 

Where travail the solemn Fates 
Weaving the web of the years. 



52 



A Legend of Normandy 

Deep-bowered among the hills of Normandy, 
Where seaward flows the ever-dimpling Seine, 

Through billowy meads, the home of husbandry, 
That yearly yield rich store of golden grain, 
A hamlet lies upon a little plain ; 

And in its midst a chapel, quaint and old. 
Lifts a slim spire above its western door. 
Where, in a niche the arching entrance o'er, 

A figure stands enrobed in tarnished gold. 

The figure of a stalwart youth, whose hands 
Uphold a fainting child, and whose fair face 

Seems looking far across the fertile lands 

To some dim bourn within the depths of space. 
The Chapel of Saint Pierre the holy place 

Is called by those that in its shadow dwell ; 
And of the youthful saint to whom they pray 
In trust and loving reverence, day by day. 

This story do the humble peasants tell : 

In years agone ( how many none may know ) 
Upon the river's reedy marge lived one 

Whose cheeks had lost joy's soft and sunny glow,- 
A silent woman with her only son, 
A comely lad, whose happy days had run 



53 



Through sixteen shifting seasons. Strong was he, 
Yet kindness shone within his truthful eyes ; 
Folk did not marvel that his speech was wise, 

For his calm brow proclaimed nobility. 

Stretching beyond the river's restless tide 

Were deep green meadows where the children 
played, 
And plucked, each year, the blossoms starry-eyed. 

To twine for Easter morn a fragrant braid ; 

And thither led, by ancient arches stayed, 
A moss-grown bridge, in immemorial time 

Reared by the hands of men forgotten long. 

Who faded like the echo of a song. 
But left this record of their lusty prime. 

It was the morn before blest Easter Day, 
And in the cottage garden wandered Pierre ; 

On all the earth an amber radiance lay, 
And musically sweet was all the air. 
From out the hamlet had the children fair 

Gone gaily meadow-ward across the Seine, 
That tossed and tumbled by with angry roar, 
And sought to burst its curbing bonds of shore, 

Dark-swollen by long days of driving rain. 



54 



Then pealed the ringing voice of one who cried 
And bade the children from the meadows flee, 

Lest, in its rage, the ever-rising tide 

Should gird them round and gulf them suddenly. 
So back they came, bloom-laden, still in glee, 

Singing their simple songs of merry cheer. 
Laughing to see the waters foam and surge, 
Till all had reached the river's nearer verge 

Except one little maid who knew no fear. 

She on the bridge's middle buttress stood. 
And clapped her tiny hands to hear the roar. 

And called aloud, and waved her ribboned hood 
In joyous greeting to her friends on shore. 
No eye beheld the archways, smitten sore. 

Quiver and part, until there rose a sound 
As of a mighty whirlwind, when, in wrath, 
It spreads destruction in its doomed path. 

That stirred the hamlet to its utmost bound. 

Swift river-ward the startled people ran 

Who were not following far afield the plow ; 

The woman left the busy loom, the man 

The forge, and hasted on, they recked not how, 
Fearing disaster dread, while every brow 



55 



Grew pallid, as before their straining eyes, 
Upon the buttress, with its crumbling stone, 
They saw the little maiden stand alone, 

And heard her lift her piteous, pleading cries. 

Then sudden through the palsied throng sprang one 
Upon the wonder of whose yellow hair 

Flashed the full radiance of the morning sun, 

And in their midst, with eyes aflame, stood Pierre. 
"Is there no man," he loudly cried, "will dare 

To brave the flood .? And are ye cowards all, 
That thus ye wait in craven apathy. 
Like senseless hinds, the helpless maid to see 

Borne down the flood beyond your mortal call .'' " 

No voice made answer save in muttered word. 

Or inarticulate murmur 'neath the breath ; 
But the chill thought that every bosom stirred 

Shone from the eyes — the awful fear of death. 

Then lofty scorn swept ( so the story saith ) 
Across the youthful hero's noble face. 
" What ! lack ye courage, men of Normandy.? 

Then I, a boy, will your exemplar be ! " 
He cried, and darted from the crowded place. 



56 



In vain they strove his rapid steps to stay ; 
Along the foaming stream he swiftly sped, 

Where willows leaned above his dauntless way 
Their graceful branches, budding palely red, 
Until at last he tide-ward turned his head 

To mark the buttress and the sobbing child ; 
One prayerful look upon the sky he threw, 
That o'er him domed in tenderness its blue, 

Then boldly plunged within the waters wild. 

Roused by his spirit, cheer on ringing cheer 

Rose till there swelled one grand, applausive cry ; 

And now he saw the buttress looming near. 

Now clutched its jagged side and climbed on high. 
Now stood upon its crest triumphantly 

To feel the stones beneath him reel amain ; 
So, clasping tight the little maid, who smiled 
In trust, a moment from her fears beguiled, 

He sprang within the boiling surge again. 

From out the vortex did he rise unharmed. 

Whereat a shout half drowned the water's roar; 

And many deemed that Pierre's young life was charmed, 
Seeing him strive so stanchly for the shore. 
But as he neared the longed-for land once more. 



57 



While kindly hands his burden snatched away, 
A sudden mighty billow o'er him rolled, 
And dragged him downward in its cruel hold 

Forever from the sunny face of day. 

Fleet seasons changed, and men were born and died ; 

Yet every Easter would the mothers tell 
Of that brave boy — the humble hamlet's pride — 

Who gave his life, and how the deed befell. 

Till among those who kept his memory well 
" The sweet Saint Pierre " at last he came to be ; 

And many pilgrim feet at Easter sought 

The simple shrine that grateful hands had wrought 
Beside the Seine, swift hasting to the sea. 

Still stands the shrine, still is the story told, 
Though silent centuries have glided by. 

Love will not let the names of those grow old 
Who for their fellows grandly dare and die ! 
Blue o'er the hamlet leans the Norman sky, 

The bells of Easter peal adown the air. 

And clear the children's choiring voices ring 
In reverent greeting to the Heavenly King, 

And in remembrance of " the sweet Saint Pierre." 



58 



Life 

Sentient from out the illimitable void, 

With darkness palpitant, into a space 

Concave, with vasts of scintillating blue, 

And peopled by innumerable forms, 

Was I cast groping. Overhead an eye 

Of dazzling fire depended, and there rose 

Murmurs of voices multitudinous, 

And sound of wind and waters. Then the light 

Failed, and above upon the gloom were pricked 

Irradiant sparks, and slowly there upclomb 

A luminous spectral disc. Again the fire ; 

Again and yet again the ghostly orb ; 

And aye the sound of voice and wind and wave ! 

Now was I stung with cold, now scorched with heat ; 

Now racked with pain, now swept with ecstasy. 

Then suddenly, and ere I was aware 

What meant the ceaseless shuttle, — the great void ! 

And, as I passed, a whisper — "' That was Life!" 



59 



Sorcery 

Some cunning spirit of the night 

Has woven upon an airy loom 
A wonder-web, and stretched this white 

Half penetrable gloom 
Miraculously from tree to tree, 
Until nor spot nor space is free 
From the spun sorcery. 

Yet let the wand of the lord sun, — 
His mighty mace impalpable, — 

When he has done his orison 
Within his secret orient cell, 

But touch this tissue, midnight-wrought, 

Lo, heaven's blue! — The spell grows naught 

Sudden and swift as thought. 



60 



Granther Time 

Chime ! chime ! chime ! 
Hear old Granther Time, 
In yonder belfry bare, 
Startling the air ! 

Joy ! joy ! joy ! 

Thus sounds his employ 

To one 

Love-glad beneath the sun. 

Tears ! tears ! tears ! 
These words another hears, 
With catch of breath, 
Brooding o'er death. 

Chime ! chime ! chime ! 
Still shall old Granther Time 
Ring o'er and o'er 
Till time shall be no more. 



61 



The Thrall 

Aloof, I heard, 

The rise and dip note of the oven-bird, 
Word upon buoyant word, 
Rapt music, blithe as is the blossoming 
Of frail hepaticas, trills dropped a-wing, 
Or from a bough a-swing 
In the warm lyric south-wind. Little leaves 
Rippled in soft green laughter. Belted thieves, 
Bent upon honey-plunder, made fleet chase 
From bloom to bloom, — 
The cloud-white trillium and squirrel's-corn, 
The seal-o'-Solomon, golden as the morn, — 
With breezy boom, 
Or low and dreamy bass. 
Then swift I said, 
Of all earth's loveliness enamored, 
' Here is my place ! 

Here will I linger and gain lasting grace 
From all this sweet renewal, — the old lure 
Of youth and joy ! I that am spent and poor 
Will straight grow rich and hale ; 
And there shall naught avail 
To filch from me my wealth ; 



62 



No creeping stealth 

Shall grasp it in the watches of the night ! " 

Hence I abide. 

O ye who would win healing, heart-delight, 

Come ye and look and list, revivified ! 

Slough thy gray wintry mood ! 

Clasp hands with life-renewed ! 

Bird-voice, brook-babble, blossom-murmurs, kind 

Touch of the -whispering wind, 

Grass-crinkle, bud-unfolding, each and all. 

Have been, and are, and will be mine uplifting. 

Earth hath no vernal entity so small. 

So subtle, or so shifting. 

It doth not hold me thrall ! 



63 



In Sanctuary 

Before thou passest from this sacred air, 

Breathe thou a prayer ! 

Attune thy spirit's key 

To a rapt harmony 

With springing pillar and the arch that soars, 

Until thy soul adores, — 

Uplifted high and higher 

With the ascending glory of the spire ! 

Take to thine inner sense 

The amber affluence 

Poured through the panes that shine 

As with a light divine ! 

Quaff thou from Music's chalice deep, ah, deep 

As from the wells of Sleep ! 

Catch from the spoken word 

A golden chord 

To be a link between 

Thy soul and the ineffable Unseen ! 

Then, ere thou passest from the sacred air, 

Breathe thou a prayer ! 



64 



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